


The Sound Of Silence.

by millygal



Series: Sounds of Silence [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Dean Winchester, Graphic Description, M/M, Permanent Injury, Scarred Sam Winchester, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millygal/pseuds/millygal
Summary: When Dean loses his hearing and shuts himself away, Sam tries to guide him back into the Hunting life, but a mistake costs Sam dearly and forces Dean into the darkness of his despair. Can Sam coax his brother into the light, and will they ever admit out loud that the underlying tension between them has a name?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluefire986](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluefire986/gifts).



> This story would not have happened without a damn fine list of peeps who pushed and poked and told me to suck it up and get over myself ;) I love thee muchly, dearest stir_of_echoes and jj1564, my read through and pompom waving guru, and my ever amazing beta and encourager. Thank you so much girls ♥ My gorgeous artist, a friend, a dear friend, was struggling with a few things during the arting time, but she delivered me some glorious art for this fic and I am going to be forever grateful to her for the beauty in this story that she's created. Thank you bluefire986 This fic can stand completely alone, but it is in fact a sequel to a Gen piece I created for jennytork some time ago - Singing for Absolution - You can read this without that, but I think you'd enjoy reading both together ♥
> 
>  

Their first time out on a hunt after Dean’s hearing is gone, is an unmitigated disaster. One which ends in Sam sporting some impressive home sewn stitches and Dean refusing to remove the damned chair from beneath his bedroom door handle for three full days.

At the end of those three days, after numerous text messages begging Dean to _please_ come out of his room, Sam’s seconds away from taking a throwing axe to the aged and scarred oak standing between him and his stubborn brother.

Forcing himself to unclench his fists and drop the axe clasped in his sweaty hands, Sam slams his forehead against the door and begs, even though he knows Dean can’t hear him. “Please. Dean I can’t do this. I - we - you were so close to being okay. Watching you hurt is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, I don’t know if I can do it again.”

Sam knows how selfish that sounds, the utter absurdity of it echoes along the empty hallway and bounces back at him as he tries, and fails, to shut off the tears gathering on in his lower lashes.

The one plus of Dean’s deafness, if there is such a thing when someone you love more than life is hurting that badly, is that Sam’s been able to rage and scream at the injustice of it all, and Dean’s been none the wiser.

Sam had known it was too soon for a hunt, but Dean had insisted and the look of simple pleasure on his brother’s face made up for the bats in his stomach at the thought of something going wrong. He wishes he’d stuck to his guns. Dean may have been pissy but he’d still be on the road to hard fought for equilibrium, instead of drowning in a sea of shame and self loathing.

Pushing away from the door and retrieving the axe, Sam snatches his phone from his pocket, before tapping out a quick text, hoping Dean will eventually feel solid enough to respond.

_Please, Dean, I’m fine and you did nothing wrong. It was bound to happen at least once. You’re learning new skills, new senses. Please. Come back to me._

Dean can’t hear Sam outside his door but he can sure as fuck _sense_ his brother chewing glass and fretting. The sensation of being kept tabs on and felt sorry for creeps, crawls and slithers its way through the keyhole, until he feels like he’s being strangled with the futility of it all.

After the hell he put Sam through when he first lost his hearing, Dean knows how hard this is on his brother but he’s all but lost the will to _try_.

If he can’t hunt he’s worse than useless, and if his inability to complete the simplest of tasks whilst hunting is going to result in Sammy getting hurt, or worse, possibly killed, then Dean would rather spend the rest of his days locked away in his room surrounded by crumpled outdated copies of _Busty Asian Beauties_ and cartons full of rotting cheeseburgers.

Dean’s phone vibrates; he feels his heart sink and his chest tighten at the obvious, far too honest pleading in Sam’s text message, but can’t bring himself to remove the chair barring entrance and giving him some much needed space to wade through his fucked up emotions.

Dean wants to kick the crap out of his desk, but knows Sam will hear it and come running, and that alone infuriates the hell out of him. Sam can hear his pain, he can’t.

He can feel it, taste it, wallow and drown in it, but he can’t _hear_ it.

Throwing himself onto his bed, Dean slams a pillow over his face, despite the fact he’s never going to have to block out unwanted noises ever again.

It’s an automatic reaction to a sense memory, and Dean has to literally bite down on the soft material almost smothering him to stop himself screaming out loud.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean’s been sneaking out of his room at night, padding on socked feet across silent landings and down creaking metal staircases, in search of beer, whisky and anything he can get his hands on that doesn’t require refrigeration and will keep in the humidity of the Bunker’s sleeping cells.

Sam knows it because he’s caught Dean, three times.

Caught isn’t really the right word, considering he hasn’t actually braved confronting or trying to communicate with Dean yet. Instead he’s chosen to hang in the shadows like a stalker, watching from a distance as Dean’s filled his arms full of food worthy of a student or someone with a serious weed habit.

Sam swears he felt his own arteries clogging just looking at the multitudinous amounts of cronuts, ring-dings, and potato chips accompanied by whisky, beer and cheap soda - all threatening to topple onto the floor.

Despite Sam’s natural inclination to jump from the shadows and slap the fructose filled collection from Dean’s arms, he’s been too afraid to face his brother. Seeing Dean’s sallow, sun deprived cheeks and sunken, rheumy eyes up close may just make him wail and beg his brother to come to his fucking senses.

Dean is nothing if not stubborn, a surprise attack of _chick-flick_ won’t help Sam’s cause and it certainly won’t persuade Dean to see reason.

The entire situation is fucking ridiculous.

Dean must _know_ that Sam **knows** about his not so covert munchie runs because the junk food cupboard has been well stocked ever since Sam heard his brother rummaging around in the kitchen that first night.

And yet, Dean’s not acknowledged it.

Tonight should be Dean’s traditional _less-than-stealthy_ walk towards the kitchen, and instead of laying awake and listening for sounds of Dean trying and failing to be quiet, Sam’s sitting and waiting at the table. Nursing a single measure of steadily warming scotch, swirling it in a crystal tumbler and watching the way the droplets cling to the glass, Sam hopes Dean won’t tuck tail and run in the opposite direction.

Sam’s left all the lights off, knowing the sight of a still angry looking badly stitched slash covering almost all of the left side of his face will only force Dean to growl, grind his teeth, and run away. That or he’ll start throwing things.

No one does ridiculous mood swings quite like Dean Fucking Winchester and Sam doesn’t think he can cope with having to physically restrain his brother, or tackle him to the floor just to stop him burying his head in the sand any longer.

Dean always was a giant pain in the ass, and that was when he could _hear_ Sam reaching the end of his rope and losing his shit. Now, he’s a living fucking nightmare to try and get through to, and he’s pretty sure Dean’s not going to give him time to jot down his thoughts on a white board.

The gentle creak of metal bearing weight signals Dean’s descent down the stairs and Sam braces for impact.

This could go one of two ways.

Dean will either spot Sam, stick his nose in the air and turn his back, or he’ll lose his temper at the perceived intrusion and start throwing punches.

Neither prospect is pretty and will probably end badly, but at least if Dean starts swinging Sam might get chance to force him to talk it out.

Dean tiptoes along the corridor to the kitchen, armed with an empty box and dirty whisky glasses, and feels his stomach growling at the thought of all those sugary treats waiting for him.

He’s been getting away with his nighttime excursions without interruption for so long, he doesn’t expect to see Sammy; shoulders hunched, head bowed low over the table. It’s such a shock he squeaks - feels the air leave his lungs and ghost over his tongue - and it _still_ infuriates him that he can’t fucking hear the noise he’s making.

Taken by surprise, Dean slips and stumbles into the door jam. “ **Fuck**.”

He’s rubbing his elbow and turning on his heel when he feels big solid hands land hard on his shoulders and yank him backwards, and he’s suddenly sitting in a chair and looking up into the pleading eyes of his brother.

His brother, who’s face is still a complete fucking mess, covered in a patchwork of self administered stitches that are pulling the skin around them unnaturally tight.

The sight makes Dean’s stomach roll over and in an effort not to throw up, he ducks his head and surges forward out of the chair, slamming his shoulder into Sam’s thighs, almost knocking the pair of them off their feet.

Sam sees Dean tensing for flight and squares his shoulders, knowing that if he doesn’t _make_ Dean stop, he’ll lose all hope of getting through to him. He’ll end up a shut-in with a belly the size of a number-ten wash tub and a serious issue with personal hygiene.

“STOP!” Doesn’t matter that Dean can’t hear Sam, Sam knows he’ll _feel_ the vibrations of the shout telegraphing outwards.

They grapple with each other briefly; Dean flailing his arms and Sam trying to pin his brother to his chest, before they both end up slamming into the wall next to the door.

The base of Sam’s skull comes into contact with cold concrete and for a moment he thinks he might pass out.

The force with which Dean’s trying to literally run through him is so intense Sam can’t seem to locate the ends of his fingers as he desperately clings to Dean’s shirt, refusing to let go and lose his brother to the rapidly spiralling depression he can almost _see_ rolling off him in waves.

Dean’s trapped. Sam’s hands are twisted in his shirt, and his left foot is hooked around Dean’s right ankle, stopping him from breaking free and running from the desperation on his brother’s face, and all Dean really wants to do is bury his head in the crook of Sam’s neck and cry.

Cry and beg forgiveness for being so useless, so pathetic that Sam’s beautiful face will be permanently scarred, and all because Dean was too stubborn to listen. “I’m sorry, Sammy, I’m sorry!”

The words are punctuated by Dean beating his closed fists on Sam’s chest over and over again until he can barely lift his arms.

Sam doesn’t push Dean away or pin his hands to his sides, just lets him take out weeks and weeks worth of frustration, fear and pain on his willing body.

No amount of bruising will make Sam stop Dean, not when he so clearly needs this.

Sam knows his brother so well, he _knows_ he’ll be apologizing for those bruises too, but that’s a problem for another day because Dean’s finally running out of steam, finally letting the tears fall and the words slip from his lips as the blows become softer and softer until he’s practically clinging to Sam’s waist and sobbing.

“M’sorry, Sammy, I didn’t mean to - your face, you’re gorgeous f-f-face. It’s all my fault. Fuck, _my_ **fault**.”

Sam breathes past the rapidly tightening muscles in his chest, ignores the quickly swelling knuckle marks adorning his upper body, and wraps Dean in his arms before lowering them both to the floor. “S’okay, Dean, it’s okay.”

Dean can’t hear the love in Sam’s voice, or the sorrow for his pain, or the complete lack of blame for the way his left eye will now _always_ droop slightly downwards, but hopefully he can feel it in the tightness of Sam’s grip and the way in which his nails dig viciously into Dean’s shoulders through his shirt.

As Dean cries himself out, curled into a ball in Sam’s lap, Sam strokes the back of Dean’s head. Gently cards his fingers through unwashed hair that’s sticking up at all angles, and murmurs unheard words of comfort.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam allows Dean to slip silently into fretful sleep as he slides long arms beneath his brother’s twitching body, and lifts him from the ground. He’s loath to put Dean back in the fetid mess that was once his immaculately kept bedroom, and decides if Dean’s going anywhere, it's to Sam’s far more sparsely decorated living space.

He’s not willing to take his eyes off Dean and allow him the chance to cocoon himself in a blanket of shame again, and so walks slowly and quietly to his own room, all the while shouldering Dean’s sleeping form, taking the weight gladly.

Finally Sam lays Dean against his sheets before perching on the edge of his own bed and running the pad of his thumb along his brother’s sweat soaked brow. “Sleep, I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Dean’s surrounded by vampires. Hordes of fanged foes all slathering and snapping their jaws, threatening swift and bloody death.

As one the group all swing their heads right and spot Sam who’s stumbling backwards, gripping the machete in his hands and screaming at Dean soundlessly. The swelling of his lips means Dean can’t read them and he doesn’t understand, all he knows is that they’ll both be dead if he doesn’t move.

Making a break for it, putting his head down and throwing himself towards Sam, he doesn’t see half the group break away and bear down on his brother who’s now completely surrounded and swinging the blade in his hands in wild uncoordinated arcs.

Dean can **hear** the vampires’ talons plunging into Sam’s soft flesh through layers of plaid and cotton, and then there’s a scream so heart stoppingly loud that Dean suddenly realises he _must_ be dreaming.

Knowing this is only a nightmare induced re-run of the events of Sam’s maiming doesn’t make it easier to deal with; it's the sight of Sam’s cheek gaping open - and three vampires descending on him - that makes Dean run full tilt for the Impala, intent on using it to run down the creatures who are trying to eat his brother.

Sam’s curled awkwardly onto the edge of his bed, hand laying open and flat against Dean’s quickly rising and falling chest, watching his brother’s eyes rolling behind closed lids.

The sounds Dean’s making in his sleep alert Sam to the fact he must be having a nightmare but he doesn’t know if he should wake him and face the possibility of Dean trying to make a break for it, or leave him to whatever hell his mind’s trapped him in.

Knowing Dean, knowing his inability to face the reality of his emotions in his waking moments, Sam dreads to think what he’s being forced to live through whilst asleep, and decides another knock down drag out fight is better than having to listen to Dean whimper, plead and call out his name.

Sliding closer to Dean, Sam wraps himself around his brother’s writhing body, throws a leg over his knees and slides an arm beneath his head, before resting his lips against Dean’s ear and blowing. Calling his name won’t wake him, but the sensation of air ghosting against his flesh will hopefully break through whatever torment Dean’s dreaming.

Sam would simply shake him awake, but Dean has a tendency to punch out when forcibly dragged from slumber, and the still healing cut across his face plus the now purpling bruises on his upper body really don’t need any extra company.

Dean’s violent movements still slightly; Sam continues to blow warm breath against his cheek and neck. And yet, Dean doesn’t wake and Sam’s at a loss as to what to do other than giving him a violent shove, which will probably result in a black eye.

It’s then that the urge to do something he’s been thinking about for years presents itself, trickles along his veins, tickles his senses, nudging his heart and mind in the same direction.

Taking a deep steadying breath, Sam runs the tip of his nose along the line of Dean’s jaw before letting his tongue snake out from between his lips.

Gently, oh so gently, afraid Dean will wake and smack him silly, Sam flattens his tongue against Dean’s throat and licks upwards, leaving a trail of wetness and gooseflesh in his wake. Pulling back slightly, Sam purses his lips and blows, letting his breath tighten the flesh on Dean’s throat and watching in awe as the skin deepens in colour.

Dean’s movements all but cease, and Sam holds his breath, wondering if Dean will awake and start kicking the living hell out of him. As Dean’s eyes flutter open, lashes flickering tantalisingly against his reddened cheeks, Sam leans as far away as the arm trapped beneath his brother’s head will allow.

“Sa-Sammy?”

Dean awakes to the sensation of something damp being dragged across his throat and he’s confused for a second, trying to remember why he can’t hear anything despite the dip in the mattress beneath him and the shadow of Sam’s body looming over him.

As his vision clears and he realises he’s not surrounded by the dismembered bodies of a dozen vampires crushed beneath the Impala’s wheels, Dean sees the fear in Sam’s eyes and goes on instant high alert.

His instincts kick in and they thankfully obliterate the memory that he no longer hears _anything_. It gives him something else to focus on other than the despair he still feels every time he remembers he’s permanently changed.

Dean’s lack of hearing has helped kick his other senses up a notch, and he can smell the sweat rolling off of his brother who’s almost hanging in mid-air in an effort to get away from him, and he scans the room for any threats.

When he sees no discarded food cartons or crumpled unwashed clothing draped across every available surface, he knows he must be in Sam’s bedroom, but that doesn’t explain the tensing of muscles beneath his head or the downright terrifying look of fear twisting Sam’s features. “What is it? What’s wrong?!”

Sam doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know if Dean’s aware he’s just been _licked_ by his brother, or if he can feel the ridiculously hard cock now pressing against his hip, but Sam’s willing to bet Dean won’t take long to realise what’s happened. He may play dumb, but the man is annoyingly perceptive when you least want or need him to be.

Sam’s spent years feeling something that he couldn’t bring himself to put into words, not even to himself. Alone at night in the darkness of ratty motel rooms, using the shadows to conceal the violently fast movements of his hand beneath the covers as he strained to see his brother’s sleeping body, barely covered by tatty threadbare sheets, Sam’s wished he could voice it, voice the visceral need for something _more_.

When they moved into the Bunker it gave him some peace, and some privacy, but it also took away his one fix, his one unfettered moment of indulgence at the end of every long as fuck day.

Dean watches a series of strange emotions flitting across Sam’s face and he narrows his eyes, trying to work out exactly what his brother is thinking, when he realises his throat is still damp from some unknown source.

Bringing his fingers up to the wet spot, Dean sees Sam lick his lips and duck his head, and it’s then that he _knows_ what’s just happened and **why** Sam looks so ashen. “Sammy…”


	4. Chapter 4

“Sammy…”

“Fuck, Dean - I - “

Sam’s automatic reaction, even though he knows Dean can’t hear him, is to mumble and stutter at his brother, and thankfully Dean’s become so proficient at reading Sam’s lips - and the telltale signs of fight or flight kicking in - that he slams a hand on Sam’s hip and drags him inwards.

Cradling Sam’s body awkwardly, using the one hand that isn’t trapped beneath his heavy hip, Dean digs his nails in and whistles, grabbing Sam’s attention before he can flee the room. “Look at me.”

Sam can’t raise his head, it’s not that he doesn’t want to, it’s that he’s too afraid to see the disgust in Dean’s eyes, and his physical instincts have taken over.

Dean’s not entirely sure what to do. On the one hand his trip to hell was only slightly expedited because he’s always harboured a want that’s neither natural or normal, but on the other, if Sam’s flushed cheeks, damp lips and the wet spot on Dean’s neck are anything to go by - perhaps that second trip to hell won’t be made alone.

He could play the older brother, pretend he’s not been fighting disturbing urges for the last twenty years - ever since Sammy started filling out and becoming a man - or he could be honest.

Honesty isn’t something hard wired into his system, he’s had to learn it from Sam. Figure out how to see it, feel it, say it.

After years spent repressing his own emotions, with the exception of him losing his hearing and not being able to face a life as a liability out in the field, Dean’s fought hard to learn from Sam’s constant bravery in the face of all the screwed up situations they’ve found themselves in.

Looks like Dean’s going to have to take the lead here, or Sam will backpedal and run away.

It would certainly save both of them the truly hard road they’ll have to walk if they cross that line, but Dean doesn’t _want_ to take the easy way out, not this time. “Please, Sammy, look at me.”

If they back away now, they could try and pretend, but eventually the truth would out and it might just pull them apart. Dean can’t live with that, with the possibility of losing Sam simply because he didn’t have the stones to see this thing through. “Seriously Sammy, stop being such a panty-waste and **look at me**.”

The tone in Dean’s voice brings Sam’s head up and he finds himself smirking. For the normality of the bitchy tone, for the sarcasm that’s been sorely lacking from his life since Dean went into hiding, and for the chance that maybe he isn’t going to get his ass handed to him for daring to hope. “I know you can’t hear it, but dude, there is NO need to use that tone with me.”

Dean reads Sam’s lips and grins at his brother, who is trying to extricate his arm from beneath Dean’s head. He decides if he’s ever going to do something about the sensation of his toes literally tingling every time Sam’s within touching distance, it’s now.

Taking a deep breath, closing his eyes for just a moment, Dean braves reaching up and running the tips of his fingers along the haphazard stitches holding Sam’s cheek and jaw together.

Sam feels Dean’s nails snagging against the still quite prominent stitch marks in his face and winces, watching Dean try and pull back, but instead of letting him retreat from the evidence of his first hunt after losing his hearing, Sam slams his hand down on Dean’s knuckles and presses hard against them. “Stop. Dean, I took you out, I could have argued and I didn’t. For an easy life I let us go out there and we’re _both_ to blame for this. Please stop kicking yourself for it.”

Dean’s eyes are brimming with unshed tears at the thought that Sam’s gorgeous face will be forever changed, and every time he looks at his brother he’ll remember what it is to feel useless, when Sam does something that will _eventually_ help him come to terms with both of their permanent scarring.

“Hey, dude, you always told me scars are sexy. Hell if this ain’t the sexiest scar out there, right?”

It’s without any forethought whatsoever that Dean allows a laugh to slide past his lips as he slams them down on Sam’s and tastes his own tears, salty and sweet all at once, and Dean thrills to feel Sam’s hum of appreciation and mirth rumbling from his chest.


	5. Chapter 5

“You’re such a fuckin’ pain in my ass, Sammy.”

Dean’s adopted the most irritating habit since losing his hearing; turning his back, knowing that Sam will have to walk all the way around his brother in order to know his lips are within reading distance.

With a growl and a few well placed cuss words, Sam steadily steps around Dean and grabs a hold of his shoulders. “Stop being such a dick and do as I fucking well tell you, okay? Put. Them. On!”

Dean mumbles _smart ass_ under his breath, knowing Sam will hear him and want to smack him, but won’t because no matter who’s in charge in other areas of their life, Sam’s the one in control when it comes to not giving into his baser urges, and hunting and ways to make it easier. “Fine, douchebag.”

Dean lifts his arms and tries not to laugh as Sam’s fingers deftly run down his ribs. “Dude, that tickles.”

Sam doesn’t even bother raising his head, having already attached the makeshift speakers to Dean’s sides and knowing he’ll be able to feel the hum and vibrations reverberating from them. “Tough.”

Not that Dean will _ever_ admit it out loud, but Sam is a fucking clever bastard.

After the hunt that shall not be named, the one that left Sam with a permanent palsy and pinched left eyelid, he’d come up with something to help in the field, to make it much easier to understand when attention should be paid. Hearing or not.

Sitting together, cuddled up on the library couch and watching the television Dean insisted on buying for the room, Sam had watched the same infomercial four times in a row in between a Die Hard showing, and he’d almost jumped out of his seat, nearly knocking Dean on his ass. “THAT’S IT!”

Sam had abandoned Dean to the rest of the film and a quizzically annoyed look.

Shutting himself away in their room for eight hours, refusing to allow Dean access and forcing him to sleep in his old much less appealing living space, Sam had finally come barrelling through the door waving something above his head and grinning.

Now, every time they go out, Dean wears a set of what used to be rip off Tums and Bums electro-training pads. Sam’s jerry-rigged them so that they receive sound waves and convert them into vibrations, using a mix of wifi technology and some serious bodge it and fuck up skills, so that Dean can _feel_ warnings from Sam.

Whether it’s when to duck and not get his head removed from his body, or the need to back his brother up, Dean knows when he’s wanted. It’s all but obliterated the adverse side effects of dead eardrums and a lack of the sense he thought he couldn’t live without whilst out in the field.

Dean shakes his head and drags his shirt down over the pads now firmly attached to his ribs and rolls his eyes at Sam who’s raising his eyebrows and grinding his teeth. “What? You didn’t expect me to admit you were the mutts nuts, did you?

This hunt is one that will hopefully help heal any lingering leftover scars that Dean’s still harbouring over Sam’s Jackson Pollock face.

Sam’s located the remains of the nest of vampires that scarred him, and, as is the trick with all winning Winchester formulas, has given Dean a really big blade and pointed him at them.

Sam knows he doesn’t need to be a part of the actual fight, more than content to watch Dean work his malicious magic; hacking, slashing, screaming and swearing, and rending heads from necks. All Sam has to do is sit quietly in the corner of the musty nest and make sure to telegraph the vibrations Dean needs to know when to spin and miss becoming a meal.

Dean’s never felt more free, more alive. As he’s showered in blood and guts from the few remaining vampires now trying to run for their undead lives, he feels like he did the very first time John handed him a blade and told him to have at it.

Dean never thought he’d _ever_ feel that sense of completion again.

As much as a normal human being might not understand it, he’s a hunter first and foremost. Losing his hearing robbed him of an integral part of his personality.

With Sam’s contraption strapped to his ribs and watching the rictus snarls of rapidly dismembered fangs falling at his feet, Dean is elated, and he’s not ashamed to admit it.

“Yippee ki-yay, motherfuckers!”

Sam’s joy at Dean’s pleasure is possibly the most disturbing thing he’s ever experienced, including daydreaming about his brother naked and bound to a bed with heavy chains, but Sam’s not above admitting that watching Dean work was always a part of the appeal.

Dean is never sexier and more attractive than when he’s deep into the kill.

Fucked up it may be, but their lives have never exactly been of the norm.

Sam can live with it.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean stands naked in the bathroom, staring down at the blood stains streaking his pale flesh and taut muscles, and feels a sense of finality that’s welcome and much needed. Those bastard fanged fuckers are finally dead.

Their obliteration won’t remove the sadness Dean feels every time he looks at Sam’s face, but it will help assuage the guilt that accompanies said sadness.

He’s about to step under the boiling hot shower stream when he feels a shift in the air and knows Sam’s behind him, sans clothes if the stiffness pressed against his hip is anything to go by. “Want something, Sammy?”

Sam doesn’t bother replying, as Dean’s facing the wrong way, but he _does_ lean in close and blow gently against Dean’s ear. It’s a tip of the hat to their first time admitting out loud they wanted each other and it always makes Dean smile like a fool.

Dean steps away from Sam and into the water that is running hard and fast, hot enough to sear away the memory of vital fluids cascading over his body, and turns in the stream, waiting for Sam to join him.

It’s safe to say that sex with a person who can’t hear is both challenging and fulfilling because it’s not about whispered words uttered in the throes of passion or screamed at ear splitting volumes.

There is a truth to their movements that possibly wouldn't have been present if Dean was _listening_ for Sam’s sounds of satisfaction.

Instead he watches the swell of Sam’s cock as it lays heavy in his palm. He **feels** the weight of it as he begins to stroke and caress, coaxing judders and twitches from Sam’s long, lithe, sturdy body.

There’s no denying Sam’s need as his spine arches and his toes curl, and Dean is not averse to dragging out his brother’s pleasure, just to see the slow creep of redness sneaking it’s way up his body, starting at the crease of his belly and carrying on to his cheeks, which are upturned as he grins through the need to fuck himself in the hand clasped tightly around his twitching cock.

“Stop teasing.”

Dean steps in close and rests his cheek against Sam’s chest, still gripping his cock tight, and chuckles. “I thought you liked me teasing, Sammy.”

As Sam spills himself into Dean’s hand and watches the swirling mess of whiteness disappear down the drain, he realises that there is nothing better than Dean teasing, because when Dean is teasing, Dean is happy.

Dean’s happiness is all Sam’s ever wanted.

 

End.


End file.
